A Question of Devotion
by jessisnotdeadyet
Summary: A Johnlock fanfiction that is purely fluff, which develops and explores the relationship between John and Sherlock that would exist were they to confess their feelings for one another. It's only short, but it's hopefully sweet.
1. Part 1

It was early evening, and the artificial yellow glow of the lights gave 221B, Baker Street a calming atmosphere.  
Sherlock Holmes sat opposite his flat-mate John Watson. Both were comfortably settled into their chairs; John was reading the paper, and Sherlock, as usual, was thinking intensly with his hands together in front of his chest, as though he was in prayer.  
In companionship, no silence was awkward, although it was rare. Sherlock did not think at his best without voicing his thoughts, so was often blurting what sounded like nonsense to John. But because Sherlock's mind was always so sharp and fascinating, John did not mind so much. Not to mention that after the whole year that he had known Sherlock, John had become accustomed to his friend's habits.  
There was not a sound but the consistent, quiet breaths that eminated from each of the men, and the slow ticking of the clock.  
Then Sherlock stirred, and he put his hands upon his knees, tapping as though anxious. John's eyes peered over the top of his newspaper, acutely aware of this small movement and the muffled taps of his companion's long, thin fingers.  
Sherlock's eyes caught John's, and then flickered away. John looked at Sherlock for a moment longer, and then returned to his paper.  
"John," Sherlock said.  
"Mm?" John closed his paper. "What is it?"  
Sherlock closed his eyes and brought his right hand up to his chin. "I..." He trailed off, unsure of what to say. John focused all his attention on him. Sherlock was never unsure.  
"Sherlock?" he said, leaning forward in his chair. "Are you alright?"  
His friend let out a short laugh. "Yes, John. Of course I'm alright." He didn't meet John's eyes.  
"Right."  
Sherlock leaned to the side of his chair, pulling his legs up to his body, and stared off into apparent space. "John, what is it like to be loved?"  
John started back, and his mouth hung a bit in surprise. "Erm... Well..." he stammered, still not recovered.  
"Hurry up, John. You know I don't like it when people are slow," snapped Sherlock.  
John mentally shook himself. "Well, it's like... Having confidence in someone that they like you for who you are. You know that they will do everything they can to protect you, and they want you to love them in return. They will always be there for you if you need them, just as long as you're there for them."  
Sherlock's frowned as he thought. "You're there for me, John."  
John's brows rose. "Yeah, I am. But that's a different sort of love. It's friendship, Sherlock. Friends are there for each other, but they're not in love."  
Sherlock's face became a mask of complete detachment. Emotionlessly, he said "But what is it to love, John?"  
"It's the... Best feeling in the world. How you devote yourself to your work, people devote to one another."  
"John?" Sherlock had changed his position so that his face was closer to John's, leaning out of his chair and staring straight into his eyes. "Have you ever loved someone?"  
John shrugged. "I don't really know. I have thought that I have, but after the relationships ended, I was never sure that it was love."  
"Thank you, John," said Sherlock quietly as he sank back into his chair, to close his eyes once more, but this time, they stayed shut.


	2. Part 2

"Sherlock."  
Sherlock's eyes snapped open as John shook him from his sleep. "Sherlock," John said urgently. "You need to eat something. Mrs H's brought up Chinese from that good takeaway. You haven't eaten since Tuesday, now it's Friday. You'll waste away."  
Sherlock sat up slowly as he cleared his groggy mind. "I fell asleep," he said with wide, shocked eyes.  
"I'm not surprised. Sherlock, you haven't _slept_ since Tuesday, either." John's tone was exaperated as he started to walk towards the kitchen where the food sat upon the table.  
"Of course I haven't, John," Sherlock snapped. "I was working on all of those cases."  
John turned back around with an incredulous look. "There were twenty-three there, Sherlock."  
Sherlock stood, and smiled at John. "And I have solved all of them."  
John shook his head. "One of these days, Sherlock. One of these days."  
"Once of these days, what?"  
"Nothing, Sherlock," sighed John.  
"Well if it was nothing then what was the point in saying it?"  
"It doesn't matter."  
"Everything matters, John."  
He ignored Sherlock and went to dish out the Chinese. Then he sat down, with his tray upon his knees, and dug in. Sherlock rose slowly from his chair, then strolled into the kitchen, first pouring himself a glass of water before joining John.  
John watched him intently as he picked up his cutlery, and picked up his first forkful. The stare did not end until the food had gone in Sherlock's mouth and the mouth had begun to chew.  
"Why do you look at me like that whenever I eat, John?" Sherlock demanded. "Wait, let me guess. You're worried about my eating because I don't, so to speak, eat much. You're worried that I'm getting thinner and you're worried about my health."  
"Well done, Sherlock. That was a really difficult one to see, huh?" John said sarcastically through a mouthful of food.  
"Manners, John," Sherlock chastised. "And it does surprise me that you care so much. You know that I eat enough, because I am not dead. Yet you still pester me about food."  
"I care because I'm your friend, Sherlock. And I'm the only one who _can _tell you to eat, because I live with you."  
Sherlock was silent for a minute. "You know, John," he said. "You're the only friend I've ever had. And, I might be getting confused, but... I... I'm grateful that you're here."  
"Grateful?" asked John. "What do you mean by that?"  
"You're the only person who has ever liked me, and the only person who I liked," said Sherlock, prodding his meal slowly. "But where does the line get drawn, John?"  
John put down his knife and fork, and looked questioningly at his flat-mate. "What line?"  
"Why do you have to be so stupid?!" Sherlock shouted as he stood up, causing his tray to clatter on the floor and his plate smash against the ground.  
"Sherlock!" John exclaimed.  
"Shut up, John!" Sherlock bellowed. "Why are you such an idiot?"  
"I... I don't... How..." John stumbled over his words in his confusion.  
Sherlock let out a roar of frustration as he sank back into his seat, completely ignoring the wreck on the floor. He hung his head with his brow resting on the back of his right hand and let out an almighty sigh as he calmed back to his usual self.  
"How can I tell you, John?" he asked, his voice defeated.  
"Tell me what?" asked John cautiously.  
Sherlock raised his head, and his eyes blazed into John's as his face crumpled. "Tell you that... I think I might love you, John."


	3. Part 3

John froze. "What?"

Sherlock said nothing, he just buried his face in his hands.

"Sherlock!" John shouted, and his friend's head jerked up, with desperate, pleading eyes gazing at John.

"You... _Love _me?" stuttered John in a whisper.

Sherlock's face screwed up in agony. "John. Please, John."

"No, no, no, no, NO!" screamed John as he leapt to his feet. "Sherlock, NO!"

Sherlock rose also, hopelessness etched into every line of his face. But John's eyes were wide and fearful, and they looked at Sherlock as though he was some stranger. John spun around with his hands on the back of his head, with anger and loss. Sherlock's mouth stayed shut.

"I can't... I can't do this, Sherlock!" John gasped. "You... You..."

"John, I didn't mean..." Sherlock began, but John cut him off.

"You didn't mean for this to happen?" he yelled in Sherlock's tormented face. "You didn't mean to have some kind of sick gay attraction to me, did you?!"

Sherlock backed away, and pain filled his whole body, wracking his mouth with a terrible gasp of disbelief and shock. "John!" he said in horror.

John calmed for a second as he realized what he had said. "Dammit, Sherlock!" he growled. "I didn't mean it. I just... I can't stay here."

"Don't leave, John. Please, please don't leave me," Sherlock begged. "You can't go. Please."

"I don't know what else to do, Sherlock!" expressed John as he clenched his frustrated fists. "I can't live with you anymore. Not when I know that every day you look at me like... That."

Sherlock shook with held sobs. "You can't go, John. I need you."

"No. You want me. There's a difference, Sherlock."

"No, John," said Sherlock, his voice rising in passionate speech. "I _need _you. I can't live without you here."

"You can live perfectly well without me!" John snapped. "You've only known me a year and you were fine without me."

"I was not fine, John. Anything but fine," said Sherlock in a small voice. "I was alone. I was alone without you, John. And I didn't realize what was wrong with that until I met you. You, John. My only friend. I don't want to be alone again, John. Please."

There was a deathly silence. They were both as still as stone, with their eyes locked. Sherlock's were pleading, and John's fearful and uncertain. Their breaths mingled between them.

"I'm sorry, Sherlock," said John. And with that, he brushed past his friend, Sherlock Holmes, and out of the door, closing it definitely behind him.

Sherlock stood alone in 221B, Baker Street, with his dinner smeared across the kitchen floor, and John's unfinished upon the table. It was colder, somehow. More barren. And Sherlock could do nothing as his heart slowly cracked, except for to collapse into his chair, which sat opposite John's empty one, and slowly sob himself to despair.

It was late. Footsteps on the stairs. Not John. The feet were too small, and slippered. Sherlock wiped the salt water from his cheekbones, and sat, slumped in his chair with his temple resting on the two fingers of his left hand.

"Sherlock?" Mrs Hudson's voice cut across the quiet. "Sherlock, what's happened? Where's John?"

Sherlock's voice was rough and raw as he spoke in harsh tones.

"John's gone, Mrs Hudson. He's gone."


	4. Part 4

Three months on, and still John paced around Sarah's house. He hardly ever sat still anymore, and it was clear to Sarah that he was suffering far beyond comprehension. But when she asked him what was wrong, he would always reply "Nothing" and then carry on walking.

John sat, fidgeting, at the dinner table as Sarah brought in the plates. His face was tight and drawn, his lack of sleep apparent. As Sarah placed the plate down in front of him, he said "Thanks, Sarah." And then he was silent, and he poked his food twice with his fork before eating it.

Sarah watched him anxiously. "John." Her voice was worried, and John looked up, startled by her concern.

"What is it, Sarah?" he asked, his eyes meeting hers, but not quite seeing her face.

"John," she said seriously. "Please tell me what's wrong. I know it's about Sherlock."

John inhaled deeply and dropped his head. "I'm fine, Sarah."

"No, you're not. Three months, John, and you've hardly said a word. What happened between you?" she asked, placing a hand on his arm. John pulled his arm away, leaving his plate humming as he dropped his fork.

"It's nothing, Sarah."

"It's obviously something. Tell me what happened, John. Or I'll call Sherlock, damn it," she threatened.

John's expressions twisted. "You wouldn't dare," he said in a low voice.

"Wouldn't I?" she pressed. "Wouldn't I, John?"

He shuffled uncomfortably. "Alright. Fine," he snapped at last. "Don't call Sherlock. Just... Don't."

Sarah watched John as he leaned back in his chair and stared up at the ceiling briefly, before he sat straight again. She waited patiently.

"Sherlock..." John began slowly. "Was... Acting a bit strange. He was... asking me stuff." His sentences were slow and carefully said, as though one mistake could cost him dearly. "We'd just started having dinner," he recounted. "And Sherlock was a bit quiet. He was always talking. To himself, to me... But he wasn't then. He was just... Quiet.

"And then, he started saying things like he was grateful that I was there, and that I was the only person who'd ever liked him, and who he'd liked. I didn't really get what he was on about. He got frustrated and sent his dinner to the floor."

John paused and closed his eyes with his brows knotted in effort to retrieve the willpower re-live his memories. Sarah sat, listening, without interrupting him.

"He said..." John cleared his throat as his voice cracked. "That he loved me."

"Oh, John," said Sarah, instinctively putting her hand over his to comfort him, but John pulled it away, unwanting of physical contact.

"I got mad, Sarah. I started shouting at him. I was awful to him, and he just stood there and took it." John winced. "He was so upset. He begged me to stay, but I couldn't. I flipped out. I didn't know what else to do."

"John, it's okay," Sarah said softly.

"It's not okay!" he yelled. "He was _heartbroken,_ Sarah! He was absolutely devastated. I could see how much I was hurting him but I just carried on. He said "I don't want to be alone again, John." He said that, but I still left."

John buried his face in his hands. Ashamed and frustrated with himself, he pushed his chair back, and stood against the wall so Sarah couldn't see his pain-ridden eyes. His breaths were deep and juddering with emotion.

"He said he needed me, Sarah."

Sarah came over to John and leant on the wall next to him. "You need to go see him, John."

"I can't do that. It's over."

She pulled his shoulder so that he faced her. "No, John. It's not over. You miss him, and that's not going to change. He's your best friend, John. And you need him right now as much as he needs you."

"I can't," murmured John.

Sarah stepped back away from him, and her voice became commanding. "Think about it, John. Because I'm not going to be here for you all your life."

"Why not?" John asked.

"Because I'm dumping you. You are now my temporary housemate, and nothing more," she declared. "You need _Sherlock_, John. And I'm not that man. Until you realize that, we're not together, because I'm not dating a man who doesn't smile anymore."


	5. Part 5

The phone at 221A Baker Street, Mrs Hudson's Snax n' Sarnies, began to ring.

Mrs Husdon jumped at the sound of the phone, having been relaxing behind the counter, watching her customers come and go. As it blared out its tune, Mrs Hudson stood, brushing her skirt with her hands as she walked over.

"Hello?" she said as she lifted the phone to her right ear.

"Mrs Hudson?" the voice crackled back quietly. "It's me, John."

"John! You called!" Mrs Hudosn exclaimed. John shushed her quickly.

"Can Sherlock hear you?" John demanded.

Mrs Hudson looked around, searching for Sherlock. "No."

A sigh of relief came through the line. "Good. I don't want him to know I've rung," John explained as Mrs Hudson sat back down.

"Why not?" she asked.

"Because... I can't face it right now," replied John after a pause.

"He misses you, John. He hardly eats, he hardly sleeps and he hasn't left the house in three months. You have to come back, John," Mrs Hudson begged. "I can't bear it. I've hardly heard him say a word. He's been so depressed, John. I'm worried."

"I... Can't. I can't talk to him right now."

"But John," she pleaded. "He hasn't taken a case since you left. He's been cooped up inside for so long."

"What do you mean, he hasn't taken a case?" John's voice was disbelieving.

"He hasn't touched his computer, or his phone. He's hardly moved at all. There's dust on his laptop!"

"But... He... He'll be so bored," John stuttered.

Mrs Hudson shook her head, even though she knew John could not see. "You've got to come back, John. He's so depressed. I would take him to a doctor, but every time I say the word 'Doctor' he looks at me with so much hope and he says "John?" And I have to tell him no. Then he's even worse than before."

There was a deathly silence that carried over the phone line. Mrs Hudson waited, because she could hear John's deep breaths through the speaker. She sat still as stone, and he, at the other end, sat with his head resting on his hand, propped up by his knee.

"I'll... I'll try, Mrs Hudson," John said at last, his anguish clear in his tone.

"Thank you, John," Mrs Hudson sighed. "Please, please, come home."

"Goodbye, Mrs Hudson," said John finally. "And... Look after Sherlock for me."

"I will," she promised as John ended the call.


	6. Part 6

Sherlock lay on the ground by the fireplace of 221B Baker Street, unmoving and soundlessly breathing. His eyes, though open, were vacant and they stared off into the depths of his own grief. The room was filled with heaps of chaos. Books and papers lined the floor, amongst crumpled clothes and the shattered glass of conical flasks and microscope slides. His treasured violin lay discarded in the middle of the room, with its neck severed.

He was so enveloped by anguish that he didn't even notice the door as it swung quietly open to reveal a shorter man's figure looking cautiously into the flat.

John Watson took in the scene with shock, but his gaze didn't linger upon the surroundings for long. It came to rest upon Sherlock's body, which was tucked up in a foetal position with the fingers of his left hand lightly touching John's chair as though trying to hold on to his friend by keeping hold of his chair.

Compassion surged through John, and his eyes itched like there were tears behind them. His once glorious companion lay like a broken, abandoned doll. A doll that was wrapped in a jumper that was not its own.

Driven by one thought, John attempted to cross the room to his friend, to his Sherlock. His feet were clumsy in their haste and guilt, and John stumbled through the rubbish like a blind man. Large pieces of glass stuck into the thick rubber of his shoes.

Sherlock stirred. He raised his head, only to see John there, with his arms flailing as he tripped on a dictionary.

He sat up like a resurrected corpse, slowly and disbelievingly. Sherlock did not blink until he was firmly upright, with his eyes fixed on his one friend.

"John?"

John stopped. "Sherlock," he choked.

"You came back, John." Sherlock's eyes shimmered as he stood.

"Sherlock, I'm so sorry," began John. "I didn't know what to do. I -"

"Why did you leave me, John?" interrupted Sherlock.

John swallowed. "I... Couldn't... Accept it."

Sherlock's face hardened. "I begged, John! I begged! And you still walked away. Do you know... How _hard _it was to lose you, John? Have you any idea what my life has been like without you?"

John looked despairingly at him. "Sherlock..."

"No, John!" Sherlock screamed. "Not "Sherlock!" You don't know what you did to me! How could you break my heart and ruin my life all in the same two minutes? How could anyone be that cruel? I've been living in Hell, John, for the past three months. And then you turn up and all you can say is "Sherlock"!"

"I'm so sorry, Sherlock. I didn't know what else to do!" John's voice was pleading.

"Sorry! Sorry means nothing from you, John," snarled Sherlock.

They stared at each other for ten simple seconds, saying nothing, until Sherlock slumped backwards and landed in his armchair, defeated. He closed his eyes and rubbed his temples as John settled into his own chair opposite him. Finally where he should be.

"Mrs Hudson said you hadn't done a case since I'd left," stated John in a soft voice.

Sherlock snapped his head up and scrutinized John. "You spoke to Mrs Hudson?"

"I called her a couple of days ago," John nodded carefully.

"Of course you did," said Sherlock with a sigh.

"So, why haven't you done a case?" probed John.

"You know why I do my work, John," said Sherlock. "Because I enjoy it. But, when you were gone, I didn't. I missed having you at my side to tell me what was obvious. I couldn't enjoy work without you because it always reminded me of you, and that hurt."

John looked away, ashamed. "You must have be so bored."

"Not really, John," replied Sherlock. "I was too busy mourning my losses."

There was a profound pause. "Will you forgive me, Sherlock?" asked John.

"That depends," Sherlock answered. "I'll forgive you as soon as you tell me why you came back. And I want the truth, John. The whole truth."

John took a deep breath, wetted his lips, then swallowed. "I missed you, Sherlock. I couldn't bear to be without you. You're my best friend, and I am so sorry that I let you go."

"There's more, John. I know there is."

"Yes," said John slowly. "There is. But I can't say it."

"Then I won't forgive you."

"I can't..."

"Then leave, John. If there's nothing stopping you."

Pause.

"I've kept it hidden for so long, Sherlock. Maybe you noticed, maybe you didn't." John's next breath was shaky. "After I'd gone, I began to think about... Us. Together. And... I realised that it had always been like that. I've put you over every girlfriend I've had since we met. And now, I have to tell you that..."

A tear welled at the corner of John's right eye as his voice broke down.

"I think I might love you too, Sherlock."

Paste your document here...


	7. Part 7

"Oh, John," Sherlock said with his face full of empathy.

"You have no idea... How _hard _that was to say," John sputtered.

Sherlock reached out and placed one hand on the side of John's left arm. "I know exactly how it feels, John," he said solemnly.

John shut his eyelids over his shame. "But you never pretended not to be gay."

"Why _did _you pretend?" Sherlock queried.

"Because I was afraid that someone would see that I loved you, and given me away," John replied with his head hung.

Sherlock chuckled softly. "They thought that you did anyway. What was it? You were my 'date'?" Sherlock smiled at John, who stifled his grin with a cough.

"I still couldn't tell you."

Sherlock took a step closer to John, so that John's nose almost touched Sherlock's chin, and his hands he placed delicately, each holding one of John's wrists. "So what do we do now?" Sherlock murmured.

John's cheeks became a rosy pink as his breathing quickened and his eyes beheld Sherlock's, whose lashes brushed lightly over his skin as he looked down at John. John took in his friend's cheekbones as the soft morning light blessed them with a downy glow, and the way that his lips curved in a smile that refused to present itself.

"Now," John said, his voice wobbling as he stared intensely into Sherlock's verdant eyes. "You kiss me."

"Obviously." And Sherlock slowly leaned down, moving millimetres per second until his mouth came to rest like a shy sparrow upon John's. Careful and curious, his lips moved over John's with a feather touch.

John's hands came up and they found themselves creeping into the locks of hair that caressed the nape of Sherlock's neck, where his fingers knotted as he opened his mouth a crack and sighed in delight onto Sherlock's. With Sherlock's arms now encircling his waist, John pressed himself into Sherlock's body, deepening their embrace.

"John," Sherlock gasped between kisses. "The door."

"Screw the door," John mumbled into the corner Sherlock's growing smile.

"John," repeated Sherlock. "Close the door."

"Screw the door."

"Mrs Hudson doesn't want to see this," Sherlock managed between desperate breaths.

"Screw Mrs Hudson."

"Fine." Sherlock pulled away from John. "I'll close the door." He went over to it, leaving John gazing after him as though the few seconds that they were no longer touching were as long as the months for which they had been apart.

Sherlock pulled the door handle until the lock clicked, and then he slid the bolt across. He rested one hand in fist on the door as he leaned into the wood. John's head tilted questioningly.

"John." His voice was wavering as he stared at the chipped black paint of the door. "Where are we going with this?"

John paused. "I'm not sure," he replied cautiously.

"Neither am I." Sherlock stood straight once more, and began to walk back to John, his eyes never leaving his face. "Because I've never been there before."

Sherlock stopped before John again, and his eyes bored into his friend's, filled with adoration and trust. John could only gape back, breathless as emotion rose in his chest like a phoenix might rise from its ashes. He tilted his lips towards Sherlock's, waiting for their impact.

And then the doorbell rang.

Sherlock whirled around, leaving John stood with closed eyes and open mouth in the middle of the room, until John opened them in surprise.

"Lestrade," said Sherlock, apparently just as shocked as John was. He looked over his shoulder at his flat-mate, whose expressions had fallen in disappointment. Sherlock laughed gently. "It's alright John. We have the rest of our lives."

Without another word, Sherlock swept from the room, and John heard him open the door to 221B and the low greeting tones of the inspector.

A few seconds later, Sherlock returned with Lestrade, who nodded at John. "You came back, then." he said with raised brows as he observed John.

John's face was blank for a second. "Erm, yeah," he replied, even though it wasn't a question.

Lestrade glanced between the men, whose eyes had wandered towards each other's unintentionally, and he shrugged one shoulder slightly. "Sherlock," he said loudly, causing Sherlock's attention to be distracted from John. "We have a case for you."

"You do?" Sherlock perked up in delight. "Is it a good one?"

"Murder," Lestrade confirmed. "We have no idea how, though."

"Excellent." Sherlock rubbed his hands together in pleasure. "You head off then. We'll be right behind you."

"But you don't know where to go," said Lestrade, confused.

"Don't I?" Sherlock asked innocently.

"See you there, then," Lestrade grumbled as he departed. Sherlock waited unitl the outside door had slammed shut, and then he grabbed John by the sides of his shoulders and spun him around in excitement, laughing joyfully.

"A case!" Sherlock relished the words. "A case at last! Oh, John, I've missed my work."

Sherlock released John and glided over to his coat and scarf, which he donned eagerly. "Come on, John!" he called as he swung himself out of the flat.

"Where are we going?" asked John loudly, shouting after Sherlock.

"To a case!" Sherlock's voice carried through the walls and up the stairs, and John, although confused, followed after the sound like it was a lifeline.


End file.
